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Under the Tree
(Some time after the funeral for Felena, which was held at the tree planted to symbolize Winters End.) Night has fallen under the Tree. Enough time has passed that there is a respite between mourners. The edge of a shadow resolves, dark on dark, and then casts away a cloak. There is a glimmer of pale spring green in the starlight, and the barest rustle of soft cloth from long skirts as she kneels by the grave. Her bound-up hair takes some slight highlights from the sky as well, but her eyes are dark. When she speaks, it is barely a whisper. "I never could cure you of calling me a lady. You even bequeathed it to your heirs." She pauses, closing her eyes tightly, and touches her face. When she opens her eyes they reflect more of the dim light. "You saw that in me. Not truth, but what you wanted me to be." "You loved me despite myself. My lacks. My secrets. These days I am more nothing than something. I could never face you straight on. But you still loved me. I don't understand it -- might never be able to face it -- but I know it to be true." "I hope you knew that I loved you. I hope you saw that I did things that--" Even more softly, "but many others also that--" She produces a slim bundle from her sleeve. It is grey in the darkness, and the wax seal seems black. "Here. The answers to everything you asked, or refrained from asking out of your forever kindness. I don't know what it did to me to tell you this. I don't know anything right now, except that I only have the courage to tell it to one who can no longer hear me. I don't even have the courage to tell--" She cuts off her whisper. There is a flash of light, then; a small spark shines golden. It flares up into a hungrier orange around the edge of the bundle. Her face is very still in the shifting light, almost not betraying grief, except for her eyes and the shine below them. "If I could have saved you, I would have." The fire reaches the seal, and it runs green down the paper, curling wisps of smoke. She holds the burning bundle by the corner. "I don't know if I'd ever would have had the courage to tell you any of this. If it would have saved you...?" The papers fan out into flames, brightly ablaze now. "But I don't save people, do I? That was what you did." The flames lick at her hand, and she releases the burning remnants to the air. Black curling ashes fly up, dancing on the wind. The edges glow like embers. She watches them disperse, silent now. When they are all scattered and dead, she bends to retrieve her cloak. Drawing it about herself, she melts back into the night like fading mist. ---- Original story in Arrish's journal.